


l'americain

by isolationist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Crossdressing, F/F, Humanverse, Nyotalia, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isolationist/pseuds/isolationist
Summary: alice kirkland is a military nurse during the great war, serving on behalf of her nation on the western front in france. in 1917 the united states of america enter the war.amongst the troops arriving in the thousands there is one private jones with whom she soon crosses paths; an encounter that in time leads alice to find her way home.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	l'americain

“What’s your name?” Alice asks. The soldier came in unnamed, dragged in by a single man who all but dumped him before her. The only visible injury was a minor cut to his head; but Alice knows that where there’s a cut there might have been a hit, and the namecheck is both to get his name and to check cognitive abilities.

“Am— I’m American,” he says. His voice is high and clear, but it holds a mellow tone to it that would be pleasing if he didn’t sound so nervous. Or utterly brainless.

“We’re quite aware, dear,” Alice says sardonically, unable to keep it out of her voice and all but wincing at the reprimand she’s sure to get if her superior ever catches word of it. “Got the uniform and all, don’t you.”

The accent too, she doesn’t add. She can’t place it entirely. He blinks at her, a little dumbly. A grin breaks across his face. “Sure do.”

Alice’s heart doesn’t skip a beat. It does not.

She has to address the wound on his head and gets to the task, washing it carefully; she’s got a reputation to her, being quick-tempered and a bit too harsh in her actions, but this idiot hasn’t hit on her yet and doesn’t seem to know her name. That’s always a plus in her book. “Your name, please.”

“Jones, uh, I’m Matthew. Jones,” he says, and to his credit he barely winces when she switches to antiseptic. She hopes he won’t bore her with any details surrounding himself and his role — once she had learnt at age four that little girls had no place in the army, she had mutinously refused to retain any more knowledge about the military than what would keep her alive. Until the war broke out, it hadn’t been much. Vice admiral Kirkland, dearest papa, has been torn between being unimpressed and amused by her antics her entire life.

“You really shouldn’t flirt so much,” says Alice to Marianne, “you think they won’t call you a floozy if this goes on?”

Marianne barks out a laugh. “There’s no harm in a little flirting, my dear. Long as you don’t lift your skirts for them too.”

It’s a slow day for once and they’re taking a slightly longer break, sitting by the back door to allow the privilege a moment of reprieve. A moment to not only take in the faces of suffering or disease. Of course, the ward is left in safe hands and with promises of doing the same in exchange for these extra minutes of freedom. 

Alice shakes her head at Marianne’s words. To be so open, so carefree about obscenities. 

“Give them something good to dream about,” Marianne says resolutely, as if a wet dream (Alice’s cheeks grow hot) will somehow make them heal sooner or better.

She pulls out her pocket watch, throwing it a glance. A few minutes more. “And a story for when they get home, about how easy French women—”

“Nothing wrong with love! Not that you should be talking,” Marianne says, raising her voice just a touch to drown out the rest of Alice’s words, “don’t think big sister didn’t see your American the other day.”

“My what?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Marianne says, blowing out a plume of smoke. Another gift from one of her soldier boys, or perhaps something she’d brought back from the town herself. She slips Alice a wrapped chocolate and though it’d be within her every right to have Alice grovel at her feet in exchange for it, Alice has heard that the other has spoken with concern for her frail form, worried that a little princess would not take well to… well, that Alice didn’t know exactly. But to be called a princess as though Marianne is any different, as though she doesn’t have lineage that can be traced back centuries as well? Something about it makes Alice’s skin prickle with irritation.

And now this, these casual words thrown around! 

“Haven’t got the faintest,” Alice replies. She looks into Marianne’s eyes, and doesn’t think of another pair, light as the sky on a sunny day. Alice doesn’t keep boys entertained. Alice doesn’t give boys a taste for more. Any amourous situation or words exchanged could very well be grounds for expelling Alice from service, though she knows that Marianne’s superiors aren’t quite as strict. Maybe there’s something to her expression that makes Marianne fold so readily.

Alice clears her throat. “We should return.”

It takes days, weeks, before she sees him again. Saying that her days have returned to normalcy would be an overstatement of that one soldier's importance, because he did not do much to break it in the first place. No matter what Marianne may say, what she whispers with the other nurses when she thinks Alice can't hear.

He hadn't been poorly off the first time they met and hadn't even had to spend the night in the infirmary before being sent back to training. There truly hadn't been much to it. Alice's thoughts had returned to him over most of the others though, the slimness of his shoulders and the gentle curve of his smile when he had looked at her. A little skittish and witless, perhaps.

He is one among many faces, none of them Alice able to recall, but surely Americans just like him. The camp is training the newly arrived men before sending them off to the trenches in true, but minor injuries still happen. She wonders if the chance to meet him again will ever occur.

In what is just her luck, Marianne spots Jones. Her face brightens. She hadn't gotten too good of a look at him in the infirmary, she had said, but he should be easy enough to pick out. Alice detests that she's right, how her eyes find him what surely has to be each and every time she is in the vicinity. 

“That him? It’s him, isn’t it. _L’Americain_ ,” Marianne asks. For once in her life Alice wishes they were speaking French, because she doesn’t trust the other woman to not humiliate Alice somehow. Her blue eyes are calculating as she gives him a once over, nodding her head to herself when she’s done. “A little bit delicate for my tastes, but it makes sense you’d enjoy that.”

Alice bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The twist of Marianne’s lips is cruelty painted red with lipstick, promising words that fill Alice with a little bit of dread from falling for the bait. “You’re so little, makes sense a boy who looks barely old enough to be here and nowhere near wet behind his ears would be the one to catch your attention.”

“Not all of us want those brutes you find yourself so enchanted by, disgusting mountains of muscle, all burly and hairy as they are,” Alice snarls. The commotion is not quite to attract the attention of the soldiers by the barracks, and she lowers her voice again, trailing off, “Some people have finer sensibilities, more refined taste.”

“And what would that mean, Alice?” Marianne asks. She looks all too pleased with herself. Her lips leave a red stain on the cigarette. Alice wishes she knew. She remembers her friend, from boarding school, with the long dark hair and her eyes a glittering green-blue so similar to the seas. She thinks of this soldier boy, Jones, with the sky blue eyes and golden hair.

Jones' eyes are wide with what can only be described as terror. “I— There’s nothing wrong with me!”

“We need to check this, might as well get started before doctor Coverly has time to come by,” Alice says. “I’m quite adept, I’ll have you know.”

“Th-th-that I’m sure you are,” he stammers. One of his hands is tightly clutching the tan fabric of his uniform, keeping it closed. From his behaviour she would guess that he’s bleeding, embarrassed or dazed, or he’s as puritanical as Marianne had joked. In either case, it would do him well to swallow his feelings so she can help him. Alice takes a step closer, and he tries to move back. There is no place to go, seated as he is on the bed.

“You’re wasting my time, private Jones,” Alice says with gritted teeth. If he fights her further, she’ll have to call for help because there is no way she can overpower him. She hates when the men come in like this, disoriented and uncooperative.

He lets go of his jacket to grab both of her hands. Alice’s eyes fly wide open behind steel rimmed eyeglasses. Sooner than she can shout for help, her eyes fall down to where the jacket is falling open. The shirt has been damaged too and there’s no denying what she’s looking at.

Her breath catches. Jones follows her gaze and the realisation seems to hit him— _her_.

Jones pulls her closer, easily overpowering her before she even has a chance to dig her heels in, until they’re almost pressed chest to chest where she’s seated on the bed. Her legs are splayed open and Alice fits between them. Those blue eyes meet hers, and something heavy settles in Alice’s chest.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Jones breathes out, voice cracking and turning higher with feeling. There's something stricken in her gaze.

Jones seems nothing like the other times she's seen her. Panicky, desperate. Yet, there is still a fire in her eyes, a sharp glint that Alice can categorise as nothing but unbridled conviction. If Jones believes that Alice is about to be ordered around by some whelp though, some scoundrel breaking all possible rules for— for whatever reason she is, she is wrong though. Alice swallows, letting the reaction almost triggered instead ebb into nothing.

The grip Jones has on her doesn't lessen, still firm and steady, but the force with which Jones is holding her slackens a little; the muscles in Jones' arms shift beneath the jacket as she allows for Alice to pull back slowly, no longer quite so close that they're almost touching. It is still improperly close and Alice forces a thought to the back of her mind, trying to ignore how she misses the warmth of Jones' body. If anyone were to come up behind them, Alice would still be blocking the view of Jones' front, jacket and shirt still ripped and showing hints of a brassiere designed for reduction beneath those layers. From the angle of her head, light bounces off of short golden waves, and those searching eyes of Jones' meets hers in what can only be described as an appeal.

The knowledge that she has Jones’ future in her hands is intoxicating due to the sense of power it comes with; a feeling that Alice isn’t too proud of and wouldn’t admit to even if she could confide in someone about it. In her silence, the fingers around her wrists tighten, an action that spurs Alice on in the opposite direction and she shakes free of Jones' grip, takes a small step back.

"Tell me one good reason," Alice says then, quiet and low, "as to why I shouldn't report you."

The change to how Jones is carrying herself is instantaneous, shoulders dropping. At this moment, Jones is at a loss. Her mouth falls open, forming a small 'o' in surprise. Surely she would not have expected that whoever found out would just go along with whatever scheme she had, taking her word as an order. She is no one, and while Alice might not have physical prowess on her side, she has her voice and her status granted by the unit she is serving.

"Y-you," Jones flounders, voice rising just slightly. "you can't be serious?! What do you think they'll do if—"

"I fail to see how that is my problem," Alice replies, heartbeat pulsing in her ears. Her voice is so close to the sneer she tends to fall back on in tense situations, putting up a guard. Distancing herself. There is no precedent for this, as far as she knows. Who even knows what will happen.

Jones stretches out one hand, catching Alice's sleeve and tugging her closer. Her lips are curled down, a stubborn set to her jaw that gives Alice pause. Jones inhales, just with an ever so slight shakiness to it.

"I'll tell them you knew," Jones says, so softly Alice almost doesn't catch it. she almost leans in closer, to hear Jones better. The softness of her voice is not to be mistaken for gentleness though, there is no softness to her tone, because Jones sounds steely cold — but behind that there is a small desperate note that has to come from throwing around weight in a game she's not sure to win. It's a gamble, and Alice can tell that Jones knows that too.

Who would the higher ups believe? The disgraced fraud, an impostor going against everything dictated and true, who will already be branded a liar if she is revealed, or the nurse who has been in the Royal Army's service for years already without complaint or fail? There is something so earnest about Jones though that Alice feels her resolve waver. She should do the right thing, and she— she doesn't want to fold. Alice straightens her back, tilting her chin up imperceptibly. The shadows shift across her face, and in the dim light available at night she's not sure her expression isn't unreadable.

"Kirkland!"

The barked shout comes seemingly out of nowhere and Alice twists her neck, finds the doctor calling for her rolling in another sickbed, a man groaning loudly and disrupting the previous relative calm of the night shift. She levels Jones with a look that she hopes says all that she doesn't have the time to say — she has a job to perform, and no American soldier no matter the circumstances is going to have her falter in her professionalism. Alice turns on her heel, marching off. Jones will have to remain a problem for another day.

————— 

The bed is empty the next night, when she returns for her shift. She knows better than to ask around, lest her fellow nurses start up any rumours. Alice waits a few days but she hears no word of disgraced soldiers being punished, and she herself isn't called in for questioning.

Jones has disappeared, most likely to the barracks once deemed well enough to return. That is how the story goes, day in and day out. Patch them up and send them back to where they came from. Jones is lucky, still in training and not at a risk as high. The others though, the soldiers already used to the heat of battle, are patched up and sent out again to face death. Disease. Dismemberment. Whatever other horrors they may very well meet, insidious enemies getting more and more creative on both sides. Alice along with her fellow medical staff have seen atrocities no one else could ever imagine.

Alice could very well report Jones now, no one would even attempt to stop her. Yet, she hesitates. Holds off. Tells herself that she is too busy, and that much can be said to be true. The slow days are few and far between.

Winter rolls in slowly, cold and dreary and biting even through the additional layers of dress Alice is forced into each year when the season comes about. It probably isn't any worse than the winters at home, especially not compared to when they visit the hunting lodge in the north, but it feels that way. The pair of combinations she favours is too thin now and instead exchanged for a knit unisuit, and an extra flannel petticoat for warmth. Alice knows she has lost weight since she first arrived, her coat fitting slightly too loose even with the added layers. There are many things that are the cause of this. The stress. The long hours. The difficulties of getting supplies. The lack of food.

More than once, Alice has had her portrait painted. Despite the fondness for the camera one of her older brothers had, there was only so much one could do with it, according to mama. In both of the portraits painted of her in her late teens, just barely a young adult, she had been asked to leave her glasses off. She had hesitated at the time, her face feeling bare and not at all like hers, and looking at the final painting she had seemed so different. Gentler, softer. A smile on her lips that she has never seen in photographs or the mirror. Perhaps, more like the version of her the painter commissioned by her parents wanted to bring to the forefront. Something about the thought chafes inside her, rubbing the wrong way, when she thinks of it. Looking at her now, would she at all be recognisable compared to that young lady?

She pulls at the collar of her coat and curses mentally at lacking the foresight to bring her shawl. She turns the corner and surprise fills her. Jones still hasn’t been sent to the trenches, Alice realises, but rather is hanging around the camp. Alice isn't too certain of how those things work, how long the Americans troops will require additional training.

It appears as though Jones is making an effort to stand out even less, shoulders hunched and not speaking unless spoken too. The behaviour seems almost strange compared to that soldier that had been so at ease the first time Alice met her, but Jones must be just barely scraping by, hanging on by a thread. The worry to be found out must be constant.

Something not dissimilar to guilt finds its way into her system at the thought, at how she had held the revelation over Jones' head. Attempted to, at least.

Alice rips her eyes off of Jones, keeping her gaze locked at the doors to the infirmary/hospital. If she could pass by unnoticed... well, that sure would have been preferable.

"Hullo, miss," one of the men sat close by the walkway set up say instead, his accent English but quite unlike her own. Alice nods in acknowledgement, shuddering at the chill of the wind. She can feel several pairs of eyes on her now. "Mind, can we ask you a question?"

"I'm afraid I likely won't be able to give you an answer," she replies, but she slows to a stop in any case. The worst they'll ask something crude she'll have to pretend to not understand, or they'll ask something she will only learn from Marianne later was something so crude it'd even make the other woman blush.

"You lot get tired too, right?"

There aren't enough words in the world to describe the surprise she feels at his words. If nothing rude, she had expected a question about something ordinary, about news from home or if she knew when any shipments with goods the men would get their hands on and then trade amongst themselves would arrive. _Do they get tired too_? By God, do they ever. Alice contemplates whether they want to hear the truth, or if she's supposed to say something bright. Something kind. Something more likely to boost morale.

She refuses to make herself a liar to please a man.

"Of course we do," she says. She shivers again, but forces herself to stand a little taller. "But what other option is there? We must all play our part, no?"

Her eyes meet Jones', just for a second, and something she can not put words to transpires between them in that gaze. Maybe, it is simply understanding.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a job to do," Alice says, not bothering to say and listen to any reply that might come. As she walks away, she at last wraps her arms around herself. It's bloody freezing.

It isn't all that much of a surprise when she sees Jones again. The other woman approaches her at the end of a shift, when she's leaving for the night.

"Good evening, private Jones," Alice says.

"Evening!" Jones fires back, quickly, a little surprised as if she hadn't expected Alice to show up. The thought hits Alice then, that perhaps she isn't. She doesn't know who else Jones might be looking for, it isn't as though they know each other well or even at all, really.

"Well?"

"I'd, um..." Jones trails off.

"I don't fraternise with soldiers," Alice says. Jones' eyes widen, large and round, like she hadn’t expected it. Surely, she must know what all the men know at this point. The nurses like Alice are expected to be untouchable, supposedly so, and that expulsion hangs over her head if the wrong person were to catch them in something as simple as this moment. Then, Alice flushes lightly at her own words. She wonders what Jones must think, that maybe the surprise isn’t from not knowing this, but rather at Alice treating her as though she’s on equal standing as a potential suitor that must be discouraged. 

“I mean no disrespect, nurse Kirkland,” Jones hastens to say, cheeks a little pink. Alice has to look away from her face, focusing on the shoulder of the winter jacket. “I, could we have a moment?”

“Haven’t I already given you enough?” Alice asks. 

Whatever reaction she might have expected, a small gasp followed by a breathy — almost breathless — chuckle wasn’t it. She meets Jones’ eyes again. “You’d be right about that, nurse. I… I just wanted to see you home safely?”

The winter night is dark and the camp poorly lit. There must be men much less chivalrous than Jones roaming about. Alice knows this. Maybe that is an excuse that would be accepted.

“Alright, then,” Alice says after a beat has passed. “See us home safe.”

Jones seems surprised once more at the grace she has been allowed. She goes to offer Alice her arm, but seems to think better of it before Alice has even raised an eyebrow derisively. She shuffles on her feet, seemingly uncertain how to proceed now. Had she not been taught it unladylike, Alice would’ve rolled her eyes in plain sight. Alice pushes past where Jones is standing, and Jones is quick to follow, to fall into step with her. 

They walk without speaking at first but after a little while, a few paces away from where other people are more likely to overhear, the silence is broken by Jones.

"I've not done anything wrong," Jones says. Alice glances at her. The stubborn set to her jaw is familiar, and just as prettily handsome. "I've really not. I'm— I'm doing the right thing."

"I'm not sure I can agree with that so readily," Alice says. She tries to bite back the judgement. It is with cold fingers she adjusts the scarf around her neck, pulling it up until it covers her chin. Almost hits her nose. She knows better than pulling it higher though, no matter how cold the tip of her nose is, knows from too many times that her glasses will fog up the second she does.

They walk in silence again for a few moments; Alice's heels clicking on the hard street and Jones' boots heavy. She walks with the swagger of a man and Alice wonders how practised it is, or if that is something Jones has done for longer than she's kept up the charade in this very place.

"I have a brother," Jones says. "He can hold his own, of course, would probably have an easier time keeping up with... with the others here. But I can't have him risk his life. His future."

Alice inhales sharply, hoping feverishly that Jones won't take notice of it. It sets off an ache in her chest, the reminder of family, her thoughts immediately pulled back to her own family. To the four brothers of hers. 

Alice freezes. This boy, by God, he’s too young to be here and she can tell in the way he cries so freely. He has not yet fully been taught shame, and he cries out for his mother in his deliriousness, with large wet eyes. He grips her hand far too tight and Alice is covered in blood, from the last patient and the patient before that, and she should change her apron

He stares at her with those large eyes and she wonders if he sees the mother he calls out for, or perhaps an older sister, or just some girl he used to care for. He isn’t going to make it through the night. If he lives another hour she’d be surprised. 

His breathing calms down and his tears slow. Not immediately, but Alice stands still. Allows him to hold her hand.

“What’s your name?” she asks, gentle in a way that has the nurse at her side pause.

“H-Henry,” he says. 

“Hi, Henry,” Alice says. Despite what people may believe, the heart in her possession is not ice-cold. “You’re a bit young to be in a place like this, no?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. She wonders if he knows he’s going to die.

“I’m sixteen,” he admits, voice wobbly and with tears clinging to his eyelashes and cheeks. There’s a quiet gasp from somewhere nearby — do these people not have better things than listening in on the conversation of a dying child? He clears his throat, or, rather, he attempts to. A dry cough comes instead, bloodied spittle landing on his shirt. He clenches her hand tighter.

Alice puts her free hand atop their joint hands.

“What’s, what’s your name, miss?”

“I’m Alice.”

“Like the book,” he says, like so many before him has. Alice smiles slightly at the way he brightens up, swallowing down the harsh rebuttal and the thoughts asking in vain for her mother to not have named her on a whim and with the help of her brothers. Why not something sensible, like Rosa after papa’s aunt twice removed?

“Yes,” she says instead, “like the book.”

The doctor clears his throat, catching her eye. “Nurse Kirkland.”

Two of her fingers slip to the boy’s wrist. It’s still there, faint but slightly stronger than she thought. Countless boys like Henry have died in battle or within the hospital doors. 

“Doctor, Henry and myself are enjoying a chat,” she says, slightly braver than she feels.

————— 

The taste of bile is overpoweringly strong and sour. The stench isn’t much better.

Gasping for breath, unable to stop dry heaving. A hand touches her back. Alice’s head whips around, ready to lash out at whoever would be foolish enough to barge in on what clearly isn’t something she would want to be seen. She’s met by eyes so blue it only takes a second for them to register as belonging to Jones.

Part of her can’t help the crushing dread that immediately fills her, that the other woman will turn away, and leave her with the privacy she had not even seconds ago wished for.

————— 

“Sometimes I think the war will never end,” Alice says, voice as soft as a whisper but hoarse and bitter. She doesn’t care if Jones can hear her or not, she just needs to get it out. “That it will go on forever, or until every last man is dead. Maybe it’ll end then.”

Or will the women bear arms in their stead — mothers and wives, sisters and daughters, of the fallen. 

The war to end war. The war that will end war. They speak of a winning side, but some days she wonders if there can be said to be one with all the losses made. The countless lives lost, damaged, forgotten. The Americans are supposed to turn the tide, but some days she’s not sure that will be enough. 

Jones’ body is warm where it just almost touches hers, seated as they are side by side. Jones. The American. Are they right to put their hope in them?

“Got my training done back home, couple of weeks after the war broke out,” she continues when Jones doesn’t interject or reply, just sits quietly. “I’ve been stationed in France since autumn 1914, moved hospitals once. I’ve been here for over three years.” 

There is something terrifying about making herself so vulnerable to somebody else. The balance is shifting, no longer in her favour. The footing is slowly growing more equal between them. Alice wonders how much of the storm of feelings inside her that Jones knows of, what she can feel. 

Winter doesn’t even seem so cold, right now. Spring seems ever far, though.

“I have… I _have_ four brothers. I’m second youngest, the only girl,” Alice says with a wan smile. Her childhood hadn’t been too easy surrounded by boys like them, a little bit too rough around the edges for their unwelcomely frail little sister, even though they happily allowed her to tag along on their adventures before she was old enough to be learnt that was no way to behave. Even then, in secret, when they were all at the family estate for school holidays rather than sent off to different schools all over the country, Alistair had taught her how to make a fist without injuring herself, James where to aim, and Owen how to throw it. Alice never did have much use of it at her boarding school the way they had, but it was knowledge she carried with her.

Her nails dig into the soft skin of her palm, sharp pin pricks of pain. In a movement so miniscule Alice would barely notice it herself, Jones moves her hand until their fingers touch. Her hand doesn’t quite cover Alice’s, nor are their fingers entwined, but the point of contact makes a pulse of electricity travel up Alice’s arm. Perhaps, this talk of brothers is something Jones understands better than most. 

“My younger brother was twelve when I left. When I saw that boy there, in the ward, with that pallor—” Alice’s voice cracks as the tears start anew. She tries to blink them away with rapid little movements, much like she would do when she’s gone for a swim and opened her eyes to look underwater. Blink away the saltwater to stop the burning. “He was too young to be there, you know. He shouldn’t have been there. If Peter has to come take part of this war I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.” 

_I might very well die_ , Alice thinks.

“I’m sorry,” Jones says, so quietly Alice almost misses it. She squares her shoulders up. She opens her mouth, and says,

“This war has claimed one of my brothers already.” 

That they know of, comes that unbidden voice in her head again. The one that reminds her of everything she’s seen, everything she has felt. That she knows of. Because the news had reached poor mama first, at home alone with Peter, while the rest of them were out in the world partaking in the war. Because mama had been the one who sent them the news, information taking days if not weeks to reach them all.

Now, Jones’ hand closes over hers fully, in a grip so tight it hurts. Alice twists her hand around, cold fingers wiggling and finding their way between Jones’ somehow miraculously warm digits. The touch is grounding, welcome. Comforting. It is a marvel unlike any other how a person feels so reminiscent of a summer’s day. For a moment, Alice permits the feeling to overcome her.

“I’m sorry,” Jones repeats. A little louder. So painfully earnest. Alice’s heart lurches, twists into a shape as small and sad as she feels. “I truly am so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Alice says. The back of her teeth still tastes of sick. It’s a rotten world they live in. How unsightly she must appear — she'd rather not consider how she must look to Jones. She holds on to Jones’ hand a little tighter, stronger than she seems, because words are failing her now. The gravity of the situation is a crushing weight, constricting her chest.

In an unprecedented manner, with this unwavering presence at her side, Alice allows the tears to quietly stream down her cheeks. Keeping a stiff upper lip, try as she might, is not that simple. 

Her tears run dry eventually. It feels as though she wouldn’t be able to cry a drop more had she even wanted to. She feels so empty and light she may very well walk on top of clouds, were she to stand up in this moment. Jones inhales slowly.

“We’re leaving, tomorrow,” Jones says, something quietly mournful. “We’re. We’re moving forward.” 

Of course, weeks of training must not go to waste. Alice wishes she could aim for levity, tell Jones she better not see her again. That Jones better stay safe, stay far away from any sick beds and infirmaries. That she has better learnt all she needs to not have any repeats of the accidents that have caused her to wind up in Alice’s care twice over, least of all now when the risk will be raised. Instead, she says nothing. Gives Jones’ hand another squeeze. Receives one in return.

Months pass. The days are the same as ever, casualties rising and ever growing, men coming and going and returning. Russia falls, not to Germany but its own people. An influenza has found its way into the trenches, something quite unlike what has been seen before, the number of patients growing for illness as well. Like this, spring goes by. Summer follows and the Americans show up in larger numbers than ever before. 

Not even Marianne makes jokes of _Alice’s_ American, the gossip having died down ever since Jones left. All of them are well aware the numbers. The chances of Jones returning are diminishing, either she’s alive and ever moving forward, or she’s been lost among the bodies. Alice has no time to stop to think of this. They are busy. Victory is imminent, it is said, but there are still many days left for that to be true. 

Summer bleeds into autumn. Now, it’s only a question of time.

“Nurse Kirkland,” Marianne says quietly, “would you have the time to come with me, just a second?”

After excusing herself, Alice walks over to the door where Marianne waits for her. At first she had seemed somber, or almost contrite, but close up she shows none of those feelings of her mein in her eyes. Rather, she appears almost mischievous. 

“What did you want?” Alice asks. She has been on her feet all day, helping take down the temporary wing and setting up for the remaining patients to be sent off to other hospitals now that the war has come to an end, an armistice signed at last. Marianne glances back over her shoulder, cracks a lopsided grin.

“Just come along,” she says, and then an exaggeratedly loud and weary sigh, “stop complaining for a moment.”

Somehow, Marianne always knows how to say exactly the wrong thing — or rather, the thing that is sure to cause a reaction. For what is far from the first time but maybe, Alice realises, the last, she refuses the reply out of spite. They haven’t talked about what comes after all this. If they will even attempt to remain in contact. Marianne will return to Paris, but beyond that Alice doesn’t have a clue what the other woman has planned. The sound of her heels on the ground make Alice’s irritation grow with each clicking sound.

“I really don’t have time to dawdle,” Alice says sourly, when she realises she has followed Marianne all the way outside. Marianne is still looking ever so smug and Alice would turn around and walk straight back inside, were there not something ever so unusual to catch her eye.

Because there she is, Jones in a crisp and clean uniform. A small gasp leaves Alice at the sight. She hadn’t known whether or not Jones would make it out alive, not with the number of men reported dead or missing even during the victories. Of course, Jones is no man. 

Jones smiles, softly at first, but it soon grows into a grin.

“Miss Kirkland,” Jones says, tipping her cap in greeting. She is looking a little bit worse for wear with exhaustion painted over her features, but hair perfectly styled and bringing out her high cheekbones.

“Nurse,” Alice corrects her, automatically. She is still in her own uniform. She finds her fingers gripping the fabric of her apron, a reminder to hold back. Uncharacteristically, Alice has to take a deep breath, trying to organise thoughts that have fallen into a muddled heap of chaos. Jones was never meant to return. Wasn’t supposed to be here, smiling. That familiar American lilt to her accent, colouring her words. 

“My apologies,” Jones says, looking nothing close to sorry. Alice’s fingers curl into fists, still gripping the apron. She wants to give Jones a shove or a hug, her insides a battle between conflicting emotions and propriety. 

“My, my,” Marianne says with a self-satisfied smile on her lips. Alice had almost forgotten she was still there, and from Marianne’s raised eyebrow, she knows this as well. “I must take my leave, but it was a delight to meet you, monsieur, and Alice… I’ll see you later. Enchanté.”

Why couldn’t she simply have slipped away silently, Alice finds herself wondering as heat rushes up her cheeks. Jones’ grin falters slightly, moreso in confusion, but her ears seem a touch redder when she tips her hat in Marianne’s direction. Marianne’s hips move in a sultry sway, skirts sashaying around her calves, as she walks away. Alice looks back to Jones, only to find her already having her gaze focused on Alice. 

“I’m—”

“It—”

They are both caught by the surprise at having spoken at the same time, pausing and looking at each other with widened eyes and pink cheeks. Jones breaks the silence with a guffaw of laughter, and a small smile creeps onto Alice’s face at the sound of it, all too charmed at the ease with which Jones seems to carry herself now. A little taller, a little more relaxed. 

“Nurse Kirkland,” Jones says, “would you like the honor..?”

“No, you first, private Jones,” Alice insists, all too aware that she didn’t actually have a clear line of conversation in mind and she’d rather not make a fool of herself, saying words she’d regret or find embarrassing going over them in her head when looking back at the conversation later. Jones pulls a funny little expression, so quick Alice almost misses it. 

“We’re stopping for the night, before we’re shipped off back home.”

Home, which for Jones means somewhere in the United States of America. Across the Atlantic Ocean. It is a sudden realisation that hits her, something Alice somehow had managed to avoid — perhaps in her belief that they would never meet again, it simply hadn’t mattered. 

What Alice says is, “So, you came to find me.” 

Jones cocks her head, smiling still. “I did. Had to-- had to know you were well.”

“I am,” Alice says. She pushes her glasses up her nose bridge, even if it doesn’t do all that much in reality. They haven’t slipped down much, if anything at all. “Had you been a few days later you would’ve missed me.”

“Just on time then?” Jones laughs softly.

“You could say that,” Alice replies. Maybe, in another lifetime, that was what happened. Hesitates a little, but she has to say it aloud. “It’s… it’s good to see you again.” 

Jones’ cheeks are a lovely shade of pink. Blue eyes glint with determination. 

“Um, th-the same to you. Miss. And I’m, I’m really so sorry-- I just have to know,” and the initial stuttering does nothing to hide the genuine bravado with which she pushes forward, “is there anyone that has taken my place?”

It’s bold, a little presumptuous. Alice’s insides flutter in a way she can’t recognise ever happening before, and she feels a little breathless. Surely, Jones has to know that there is no chance of that happening. That no one else could catch Alice’s attention in this manner. There is something deep inside of Alice, something she keeps hidden and refuses to give a name to — ‘cause so much power lies in a name — that has made it impossible for anyone else to pierce through to what’s inside her chest. She exhales, tries to tamper that breathless feeling. Carefully, Alice forces her fingers to relax around the apron, stretching her fingers to lie flat against her thighs. 

“Tell me… that I haven’t misunderstood,” Alice says, softly. Quietly. She glances up at Jones through her eyelashes, not quite certain she dares meet that gaze full on. If Alice had thought Jones’ expression couldn’t turn brighter, she had thought wrong. Jones doesn’t do anything so foolish as try to grab for her, the way the soldier boys who promised themselves and their hearts to some of the other girls, even if that is simply what they would appear to be. 

Jones stands a couple of paces away from the vehicles, away from the bustling crowd and rowdy men whose chatter has only grown louder at the promise of just the one short ride until they’re at the docks and boarding the final ship to return them home. She’s resting with her back against the wall. If she’s attempting to appear unaffected, she falls short of it. The constant movement. The shuffling from foot to foot, nudging at pebbles with the toe of the boot, a finger tapping against said wall.

“Private Jones,” Alice calls out, attempting to keep her voice from appearing too eager. From Marianne’s snicker, it appears she was unsuccessful. Jones’ head shoots up, her gaze quick to hone in and find Alice. “I’m so sorry—”

“You made it,” Jones interrupts what could easily become a run-on excuse, jumbled words and excuses and denials. Had it been anyone else, or any other circumstance, Alice would not have reacted as well. As it is, she bows her head, hides her smile when she’s hit by the full force of the sheer delight on Jones’ face. Perhaps, Alice dare believe all this means as much to Jones as it does to her.

“All right, everyone, time to pack up and get going!”

They both startle a little at the sound of an officer’s voice ringing out. It’s a shame that Alice’s schedule is packed enough to not allow for more than this moment, a miscalculation on her side, but of course they had needed her help— there’s always something that needs her attention. It is most regretful. The exchange of words between them is left unspoken, never coming into fruition, and a few metres keep them separated. If Jones has luck and determination on her side, Alice has always had to fight hard to reach what she wanted. Not always achieving it.

The same officer climbs into the passenger seat, saying with good humour and passion, “We’ve still got a few days ahead of us, and we can’t afford to miss the ship because you’ve not yet said your goodbyes.”

The door slams shut, a highly effective punctuation mark.

“That means everyone,” another of the officers is quick to add, just as loud, and Alice feels a little flustered even if Jones and herself are far from being singled out.

“Go, go,” she scolds Jones, shooing her away, to Jones’ great amusement. The heavy rucksack is thrown up into the arms of one of her countrymen, who unceremoniously drops it onto the floor with the rest of them.

Jones climbs onto the vehicle, hanging onto it as she waves with her entire arm in a large, sweeping motion, all too attention-grabbing and overt. It’s a tad humiliating and rather endearing all at once, and Alice’s reaction is to wish for the car to take off and take Jones away so that she no longer will be subjected to such feelings. It’s too overwhelming, the boundless energy that Jones must have kept hidden away, stored somewhere deep inside. Marianne nudges her with her elbow; Alice shoots her a glare, but she knows that Marianne is right. She raises her hand, gives Jones a small wave back.

“Jones,” one of the other soldiers shouts, just as American, “sit your ass down, you didn’t survive the war to crack your head open now!”

A sheepish expression crosses Jones’ face at the laughter at her expense the remark brings, even if she’s still grinning blindingly bright at Alice, and Alice alone. She climbs on board properly, listening to the barked command, but even so she stays well within Alice’s line of sight. The vehicle starts up then, and despite amused shouts and jeers, Jones pushes herself upright with no regard for personal safety yet again. 

“Write to me!”

“Who should I even address my letters to, you fool,” Alice cries out, furious. Furious and charmed, if she was to be honest with herself. A grin creeps across her face, the smile on Jones’ lips infectious and a little bit ridiculous.

Jones laughs. “Write to my sister, Amelia! Check your coat, left you a note.”

Disbelief at finally having a first name for Jones fills Alice, stunning her into only waving weakly as the vehicle pulls away. She keeps waving until it’s slowly driven away, hand moving almost mechanically as she tries to process the whirlwind of emotion this American has caused within her. She realises that she’s still smiling anyhow.

And just like that, Jones is gone again. A whirlwind of a presence that wreaked havoc on Alice’s heart once more.There is no time to dwell though. Alice has things to pack. A few final days left in France, before she is able to return home to England.

————— 

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, nondescript. Not entirely dissimilar to what the world had felt like before Alice got her first pair of spectacles.

Alice sits down on her bed with a complete lack of grace, her feet in pain from the running around she had inflicted on herself, while barely being granted more for it. She had never promised Jones she would be able to see her off, had told her last evening after they parted that it might very well be impossible. Now, she wishes she had tried even harder; Alice would have liked nothing more than being able to reach out, just one last touch as a piece of evidence that Jones had been real, not just a figment of Alice's guilt ridden and tired brain making her see ghosts. Just a brush of hands if not of lips.

She had slung her navy blue coat over the chair as she entered the bedroom. Earlier, after Jones' promise of a note she had excused herself to find her coat hanging inside the lockers where she had left it in the morning. She had touched the outside of it and felt a piece of paper inside. She still hasn't even so much looked at it. It would only have served as a distraction, and the knowing glances of the remaining women serving with her had already been enough to make her cheeks tinged pink in shame and happiness alike.

Now, she kicks off her shoes as she takes the steps across the floor, bringing the coat with her as she falls back onto the bed. The heavy fabric is rough beneath her fingertips, the garment heavy as she pats along it to find the pocket. Her fingers dip into it, and touch the paper. Alice closes her eyes, takes a breath, before pulling it out. She glances at the folded piece of paper, not even put in an envelope so won't regard it truly to be a letter. Jones had been speaking the truth. Amelia, she thinks, corrects herself. It still feels too foreign, even if she had known all this time that Jones had been using her brother's name. Holding it with both hands, heavy coat still laying on her chest, she opens the note. Has to turn it ninety degrees to right the words, to read them.

_Dearest Alice,_

_Promise that you’ll write to me. Send your letters to Amelia F. Jones, she’ll take care of them._

_Earnestly yours,  
Jones_

The note ends with a scribble she can barely make out, but she traces the shape with a finger and knows it has to be the street Jones used to live on. The poor lighting doesn't make it any easier to see, but she's certain she'll be able to make out the slightly smudged text. Alice smiles.

epilogue : AMELIA

_**New York, 1920** _

There is a letter in Amelia’s jacket that she has read through, time and time again, the words memorised like a prayer or poem even if it is nothing of the sort. The envelope makes a light crinkling sound when someone bumps into her as they hurry past, not even offering an apology as she elbows them off with a strong shove. Her pulse raises slightly. It had of course been a risk, to bring something so fragile that she holds so dear, but she knew she needed it with her. 

_Dear Amelia,_

_I hope you have been well in the time since your last letter. My health is better, as I said already, so don’t you worry. I promise you that an extended stay in the countryside worked wonders. I bring news I shall hope are as exciting to you as they are to me._

_Travelling to America? Not as much of a battle as feared, at least not when proposed in the manner I did! An educational trip for Peter and an opportunity to make an impression on those New York City socialites, the baroness was all too willing to set up an arrangement with a cousin of hers to take us for parties and events. I believe papa and mama are hoping for me to find one of those nouveau riche men unmindful of my ever growing age — indeed, a lack of title is acceptable in the case of a suitable fiscal situation. You wouldn’t happen to have a fortune lying around, would you?_

_Peter and myself will arrive in the beginning of June and our stay will be for the summer… maybe longer. I told you he graduated, didn’t I?, so papa would prefer it for him to attend university come autumn. Time passes by so fast._

_Oh, I’m dallying again, am I not? You know what I want to say even so, I’m certain. It is easier to be open in writing, but knowing that you will read this and then we shall meet again is making me fearful. What if it is all in my imagination? What if things are too different now— what if we are too different now? I still hope to see you in New York. Ardently so. Will you have me?_

_Your Alice_

Amelia recalls her own words and promises to Alice, all written down in both the letters she sent and the ones unsent. Apologies too, because her own penmanship is so lacking and she lacks the words at time to explain how she feels. How she felt for the other woman, in that military base in France, out alone in the trenches, advancing forward and pushing back enemy lines, and how she’s felt ever since she returned home to America.

Amelia has called Alice an angel more times that she can recall in the unsent letters, embarrassed to let such words reach the other woman. Would she enjoy such words? Does she understand the full meaning of it? Though Amelia would not consider herself a person that holds back, rather a person who will pursue what she wants whenever she can, ensuring that what is out of reach comes into reach. Nothing is beyond her, if she just tries hard enough. These are things she had believed, until she fell in love with a woman an ocean away. They haven’t met since that cusp between autumn and winter when the war ended, when Amelia made her way back to France just to say her goodbyes and the note with her address to Alice. It has been a year and a half, slightly longer still, since then. Countless letters have been exchanged in that time, Amelia barely having time to arrive home before the first letter came.

It was a chance Amelia was glad she took; if she had thought Alice beautiful before, it was nothing compared to having her thoughts on paper. A mix of honesty and scathing commentary, rueful and astute observations, and beyond that; gentleness, insecurities, aloofness and a tender heart. It is impossible to not fall in love with that. 

If things go well, Amelia thinks she shall let Alice read all the letters she still keeps in a drawer on her desk. Even the ones with content that makes Amelia’s ears turn red, cheeks burning hot, imagining what could happen were Alice there with her. 

She slips a hand into her coat pocket, touching the envelope gently. The paper is textured beneath her fingertips. She hurries her step when she nears the docks, only to find that the ocean liner is still being prepared for disembarking, no guests having made their way down the . Alice hadn’t explicitly asked for her to come, and Amelia knows there’s a chance she will only be in the way. The Kirklands have already made arrangements for their two youngest children’s stay. Amelia just _needs_ to see Alice again for herself. Even just a glimpse, just as an reassurance that she is real. That this is real. For the last weeks, this is all she has been able to think about. Matthew has humored her even though he couldn’t understand why this was so important, put up with her spiels where she debates the positives and negatives to chancing at the opportunity of one look.

Even in a crowd of people like this, Amelia knows it is difficult to miss her; a lot of it to do with her height and the short cropped bright golden blonde bob she sports, never quite bothering to let her hair grow back longer. 

Even if they don’t speak today, Alice has to know that Amelia can not wait a second longer to see her. The landing is lowered and secured, and then the passengers disembark. Amelia has to wait a little, but what are minutes more when she has waited several months longer than a year. 

When Alice steps onto the gangway, Amelia’s head snaps up. It feels though she has waited all her life at this moment and as if the world has come to a pause. A raised hemline gives a better show of Alice’s legs than what she had worn for work, a slender waif of a young woman making her appear closer to Amelia’s twenty, not yet twenty-one, than the twenty-five she turned in April. 

It is never going to be like it is on the silver screen for them. Amelia knows that Alice isn’t going to descend from the ship and run into her arms, that she won’t be able to pick her up and kiss her full on the lips like the hero in the movies. To finally get to see her in the flesh is enough in itself.

Alice’s eyes are an almost startling shade of green that makes her gaze all that more piercing, and the light hits her face as she looks out over the harbour, people and buildings, her mouth lax rather than pinched into a frown. She’s never been to America before. Amelia wonders what she thinks of her nation. What she will think, when she’s actually set a foot on land, and spent time here. Alice says something to the young man who has to be Peter, who laughs as they make their way down onto the dock. 

After a moment, maybe halfway down, Alice raises her head and her gaze once more travels. Searches the crowd. Despite the distance, Amelia can tell the exact moment she’s spotted her — their eyes meet. Alice’s expression softens, eyebrows relaxing and no longer as furrowed, and Amelia could swear that something in her eyes warms. A familiar grin tugs on her own lips, she just can’t help herself. She pushes closer to the edge of the crowd. 

It’s in Alice’s hands whether or not they will actually speak, Amelia knows it has to be, she’s not going to risk the chance of future meetings for just this one exchange of words that risks ending badly. Alice says something again to her brother, who throws an arm around her shoulders and gives her a squeeze, before he turns his attention to what must be their driver or footman, or whatever else people in their world have help with.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Alice says, a little bit out of breath, and cheeks slightly pink. She’s so pretty it hurts and all words get stuck in Amelia’s mouth. She hasn’t prepared anything to say, didn’t think she’d get the chance. As much as she’d twisted and turned, hoping for it.

“I got your letter,” Amelia says, “And I, I thought, well. I need to see her with my own two eyes.”

Something in Alice’s expression falls at that, that slightly guarded quality giving way for an expression so open and tender that Amelia’s heart may stop in her chest right then and there. One of her hands reach out, gloved as is proper, before she catches herself. It hangs suspended in the air between them, but then then its arc continues until she's grasping at the wide sleeve of Amelia's jacket with dainty fingers.

“You were lucky they didn’t come pick us up themselves,” Alice says.

“Fortune favors the bold,” Amelia replies, grinning lightly. Alice speaks as if she isn't all too aware of how lucky she is; not only that today paid off, but that Alice still hers, no one to have come between them despite half the world separating them.

It's been a long time coming. Alice's fingers loosen their grip, sliding down until they brush Amelia's. Amelia turns her own hand over, catching Alice's, and for a moment just hoping that no one will spare them a glance and that they can indulge in something so simple as briefly holding hands. Amelia has never felt lighter in all her life. She tightens the grasp before letting go. They can wait a little longer. There is an entire summer waiting for them. They've never shared one of those before.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they lived happily ever after in the roaring 20s lesbian erotic drama sequel i’m not writing!
> 
> more seriously: thank you for making it to the end if you’re reading this! when i first started writing this fic at while back, it was only meant to be an incredibly self-indulgent thing that would never see the light of day, spawned entirely from igiko’s design somewhat resembling that of a wwi nurse outfit. i wrote just under 1.8k of this in early june, before returning to it on july 1 after the realisation that usuk week on tumblr was coming up — unfortunately i did not manage to finish in time to post for that.
> 
> i ask only for a light suspense of disbelief with creative liberties, due to the initial lack of research there are some issues that hopefully aren’t too glaring, and some finicking is obviously needed for this fic to work, but hopefully it’s not so bad it took you out of the story.
> 
> additional notes:  
> \+ brassieres were starting to emerge during the 1910s, in different sorts of manners. as the fashionable silhouette began to change during the wartime, it isn’t entirely unreasonable to believe that amelia would have come across bras designed to reduce/slim her more ample figure even prior to deciding to pose as a man. ive read a lot of conflicting other information about undergarments of the era though, and it was v much a transitional period, so if there are things wrong regarding these things please feel free to point it out or just ignore  
> \+ the girl alice was friends with (and also crushed on) during her boarding school days is nyo portugal  
> \+ alistair, james, and owen are of course supposed to be scotland, n.ireland, and wales respectively, here with the anglicised versions of the names i and many in fandom otherwise use


End file.
